Medical Treatment That Sucks

If a couple of German researchers are correct, you may soon be able to go into your local pharmacy and overhear a conversation like this:

"I’d like a couple of leeches, please. The old osteoarthritis is kicking up again."

"Yes, sir. May I ask if this is your first time with the little fellows? If so, you might want to purchase Heinrich Krautzmeyer’s illustrated brochure on ‘The Care and Feeding of Hirudinea -- The Bloodsucking Annelids.’"

"Thanks anyway. Don’t bother with wrapping, I’ll just attach ’em right here."

Drs. Gustav Dobos and Andreas Michalsen of the Essen-Mite Clinic in Essen, Germany, declare that leeches have gotten a bum rap. Too many movies such as the "African Queen" have portrayed these annelid worms as voracious predators lurking in every murky freshwater river and stream from here to Zimbabwe. There they lie doggo, waiting for some hapless victim to wade right into their trap, whereupon they glom onto him like a freeloading relative. The ensuing scenes always show the horror-stricken actor trying to pry the disgusting creatures off his extremities with cigarettes, blowtorches or crowbars before they’ve sucked his blood supply right down to empty.

Conveniently forgotten is the fact that during the 19th century leeches were commonly used by the medical profession in the treatment of many conditions. The Bayer company is largely responsible for the gradual disuse of this modality. Its advertising pitch of "take two aspirin" seemed to strike a more favorable response from a patient clientele than "affix two slimy, bloodsucking leeches to the afflicted part until the filthy things are full of your vital fluids, then discard in an appropriate manner."

Well, stop the presses! Leeches may be on the verge of a comeback more successful than John Travolta’s. Apparently their PR people, working with the German scientists, are putting out the word that the saliva of leeches contains various analgesic, anesthetic and histamine-like compounds. Attach a couple of salivating leeches to an osteoarthritic knee for 80 minutes and bingo! patients receive pain relief within three days. The greatest effect comes 24 hours after treatment, at which time the leech spit seems to dry up and the creatures insist on being given a break, or at least offered a curiously strong Altoid to suck on.

The upside of all this is that there seem to be no side effects other than the sore spot you would expect from a couple of rabid leeches gnawing on your hide. The downside is that the leeches fall into the patient’s socks and sometimes right into his shoes. Patients, given the choice, frequently opt for the osteoarthritis in preference to walking around with squishy leech-laden shoes. German scientists are developing a sort of lederhosen-knickerbocker costume to corral the leeches where they belong.

The point of all this, in case you were wondering, is that old-time remedies are being resurrected and re-evaluated. Fortunately, dentistry formerly enjoyed a wealth of remedies that were unceremoniously dumped upon the advent of sodium brevital, antibiotics and high-powered analgesics.

Look for a revival of the mandrake plant, the root of which contains a narcotic and was used extensively by the ancient Babylonians and Egyptians to treat toothache. Less effective, but certainly more captivating, according to historian Dr. Malvin Ring, was the notion held by oral surgeons of the Renaissance era that the liquid left after boiling little green frogs would loosen the teeth and make them fall out. Many of the little green frogs, who were under the impression that they were transmogrified princes awaiting the buss of a beautiful princess, were horrified by this idea, vowing never to patronize an oral surgeon who held this belief.

Dentists of the time discovered, as have you and I, that actually working on the offending tooth was frequently awkward, inconvenient or downright impossible. Dr. Ring reports that they sensibly chose from their vast pharmacopoeia that featured garlic, juice of pellitory, ivy, chicory and rose petals. These were administered through every possible bodily orifice, the ear and nostril on the side of the offending tooth being the favorite routes to relief.

This may come as a surprise to Pfizer, J & J, Merck, et al., but back in the Middle Ages, a universal antidote was theriac, a concoction initially whipped up by Mithridates, king of Pontus (120-63 B.C.) to thwart poisoners. The search for a good, all-around theriac continued into the 18th century. Some formulations had as many as 230 ingredients, including ants, worms and dried vipers. Vipers vigorously resisted the dehydration process, but theriacs using wet vipers proved to be untenable.

We need not to fall into complacency regarding cures and treatments. Indeed, right at this moment on the surface of your fish pond or under a rock in your backyard may be just the thing to put periodontists out of business and give cosmedontists something else to think about. Green frogs, however, may be an endangered species. Check with the EPA before you bring them to a full boil.